"Harry!" she cried, "Harry, he puts me in mind of--of some one--I cannot
think."

Mr. Riddle laughed nervously.

"There, there, Sally," says he, "all brats resemble somebody. I have
heard you say so a dozen times."

She turned upon him an appealing glance.

"Oh!" she said, with a little catch of her breath, "is there no such
thing as oblivion? Is there a place in the world that is not haunted? I
am cursed with memory."

"Or the lack of it," answered Mr. Riddle, pulling out a silver snuff-box
from his pocket and staring at it ruefully. "Damme, the snuff I fetched
from Paris is gone, all but a pinch. Here is a real tragedy."

"It was the same in Rome," the lady continued, unheeding, "when we met
the Izards, and at Venice that nasty Colonel Tarleton saw us at the
opera. In London we must needs run into the Manners from Maryland. In
Paris--"

"In Paris we were safe enough," Mr. Riddle threw in hastily.

"And why?" she flashed back at him.

He did not answer that.